As he said so, it seemed to me as if nothing remained in its place.
Men and houses all ran together confusedly. The Torre Nueva seemed to
draw itself up to flee also, and in the distance its leaden casque fell
from it. The flames of the city no longer gleamed. Columns of black
smoke moved from east to west. Powder and ashes, raised by the whirling
winds, moved in the same direction. The sky was no longer the sky, but
a leaden canopy, strangely agitated.
"Everything is fleeing; everything is going from this place of
desolation," I said to Don Roque. "The French will find nothing."
"Nothing. To-day they enter by the Puerta del Angel. They say that
the capitulation has been honorable. Look, here come the spectres who
defend the plaza!"
Indeed along the Coso filed the last combatants, one for every thousand
of those who had faced the bullets and the epidemic. There were fathers
without sons, brothers without brothers, husbands without wives. He who
cannot find his own among the living is not at all sure of finding them
among the dead, because there are fifty-two thousand corpses, almost
all piled in the streets, the doorways, the cellars, the ditches. The
French, on entering, halted affrighted at such a spectacle, and were
almost on the point of retreating. Tears streamed from their eyes, and
they asked whether these were men or shadows, these poor creatures who
fled at sight of them.
A volunteer on entering his house stumbled over the bodies of his wife
and children. A wife ran to the wall, to the trench, to the barricade
to look for her husband; but no one knew where he was. The thousands
of the dead did not speak; and could not tell whether her Fulano was
among them. Many large families were exterminated, not one member was
left. This saves many tears when death strikes with one blow the father
and the orphan, the husband and the widow, the victim and the eyes that
would have been forced to weep.
France had at last set foot within that city built on the banks of the
classic river which gives its name to our peninsula.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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